


An Introduction to Parapsychology

by XmagicalX (Xparrot)



Category: The Real Ghostbusters
Genre: Backstory, Gen, POV First Person, POV Original Character, POV Outsider, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-16
Updated: 1999-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xparrot/pseuds/XmagicalX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teaching parapsychology is something of a fascinating endeavor in itself. I admit, I get some...<i>interesting</i> types.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Introduction to Parapsychology

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine _Ghostwriters_.

I became a professor because I loved my subject enough that I wanted not only to continue studying it, but to teach others. I want to involve them, make people see just what it was that drew me to psychology. All the intricacies of the human mind, all the uncertainties and mysteries to solve, I want to reveal them, not just the answers but the beauty of the questions. I think as well that I, like all teachers, want to make a difference in someone's life. To change them by showing them what they never would have seen otherwise. Open a door that might have gone unnoticed, and see them discover the wonders beyond it. I wouldn't deny that it's a bit egotistical. But it's also part of the psychologist in me. I like to watch what people do, and how they do it, and how far they can go when given the chance.

It's difficult to describe my interest in parapsychology. More than a hobby, less than a career. You can't really make a professional living in it, not honestly, anyway. If someone found a biological basis for ESP, perhaps there'd be a chance. Distinct neurological patterns, that kind of proof would put it on the cutting edge of the biological reductionist movement currently dominating my discipline. Results against chance, even in carefully controlled, double-blind studies when subjects do a thousand times better than the odds could explain, simply isn't enough evidence now.

I do have a degree in parapsychology, and so Columbia allows me to teach a few classes in it a year. They hired me for my credentials in cognitive psychology, however. While I was and still am interested in the workings of memory, it never was quite the same as my fascination for parapsychology. Psychokinesis, clairvoyance, even spirits—how could I not be enthralled by what pushes the limits of human ability and understanding? I try to maintain a high degree of skepticism inside the classroom and the lab, but I still dream of finding real proof eventually, making that crucial scientific breakthrough that will legitimize the discipline.

Teaching parapsychology is something of a fascinating endeavor in itself. I admit, I get some..._interesting_ types. Students who need to fulfill their social science requirements and figure parapsychology should be gut enough for them. New Agers into herbal medicines and mood rings, seeking illumination or ways to tap the power inside. Occasionally skeptical scientists spoiling for a good argument. And those few who are just curious, of course.

My class size that fall was fifty-five, which was average. I knew I'd lose about ten the first week, when I made it clear it was going to be more than Ouji boards and good vibes. Not that it wasn't supposed to be fun, but I conduct this course like any other. One of my goals is to teach students respect for the field. I don't demand they buy into any of it, but I try to make them see why some of us do believe in the paranormal, in spite of the crippling lack of scientific proof. If only there were more hard scientists involved...

I didn't receive the final class list until two days before the first lecture. I knew of three names on it already. Two were students from my mnemonics course the semester before. The third I had heard from my friend Professor Kauffman in the Physics department. Last week he had teased, "So you're stealing my prize advisee?"

"Who?"

"Egon Spengler. He signed up for your parapsych course. Enjoy him. Just please, for my sake, don't warp him too badly. Physics can't afford to lose his caliber mind." He'd mentioned Spengler before. Len Kauffman isn't a man easily impressed, but from what he'd said before and the look he got in his eye, he considered Egon to be one of the most brilliant he'd ever encountered. Visions of his student winning the Nobel danced in his head, and anything that took Egon away from physics annoyed him. I'd heard him complain once because Spengler was working with a biochemist, never mind that this was on his own time. Len is so single-mindedly focused on his science that he doesn't think anyone can maintain more than one interest in anything.

"I'll try not to twist him to my wicked ways," I assured him. Truthfully I doubted he had much to worry about. A genius like Spengler probably _was_ obsessive about physics; the parapsychology was just fulfilling a distribution requirement. I had to brace myself for a smart skeptic of the highest order.

The class list had a few more of interest. An intelligent senior I had had three years before, who I was pleased to have one more time before she graduated. A couple grad students, one of whom it was rumored was trying to convince Columbia to work out a Masters program in parapsychology. I hadn't had a chance to talk it over with them. It would be difficult to say the very least; the university hadn't ever awarded a degree in it and probably weren't about to start, but I would argue for it. There was also a sophomore whose name I recognized from last year's winning football game, and from a few of my colleagues in the psychology department. Of what I had heard of him, the good just about outweighed the bad.

The first class I picked out the names I knew and matched them to faces. The lecture hall was only half-filled and the students, as was typical, sat in clusters scattered about all the rows. After I identified those I knew, I took attendance and learned the rest. I've always had a good memory, and I've honed it over time. It impresses students when I know all their names by the first week. It also makes it easier to manage discussions and call things to order. College teaching isn't like high school, or God help me junior high (my sister-in-law rides herd over a batch of 7th graders; she's going gray at thirty-five). But students can get rowdy, especially with the more esoteric topics. Psychic mysteries excite people; I've witnessed intellectual arguments almost come to blows.

I had a feeling this would be one of my more excitable classes. Two of the students I knew were talkers; they'd both try to dominate discussions. One girl I pegged as a spiritual pilgrim; the beads and the reverent look on her face as she flipped through her text was a dead give away. Egon Spengler, alone in the front row, was about as ordered as one could get, from his starched collar to his short blond hair. His black notebook was closed in his lap and his blue eyes behind the black hornrims were fixed unwavering on me. I doubted he had to take notes; he gave the impression of recording every word in a mental tape deck planted between his ears.

Then there was the sophomore, Peter Venkman, sitting in the back row surrounded by an equal mix of guys and girls. When I called his name he pushed up his baseball cap and shouted down, "Yo, Prof!" The ladies by him giggled. I nodded and checked him off, completed the roll call, then began my opening lecture.

Everyone was appropriately silent until the end, when I asked for questions. Peter Venkman's hand was among the first to go up. "Just wondering whether you'd call yourself a believer, a skeptic, or Shirley MacLaine."

Most of the class laughed. "Although I try to be objective, in most areas of parapsychology I'm a believer more than a skeptic," I admitted. "There are certain aspects I find hard to swallow, and I do not believe in all evidence indiscriminately. But I'm not deliberately bullshitting you—at least I don't _believe_ I am—if that's what you were wondering." The class laughed again. Venkman sat back with a smile of satisfaction I wasn't sure how to interpret.

I answered more questions about the material and class work until the hour was up, told them to read the first hundred pages by next week, and watched them exit. One student remained behind. When the lecture hall was emptied he approached. "Dr. Chandler?"

"Yes? It's Egon, right?"

"Egon Spengler, yes." He nodded, then glanced at the clock. For all his attentive focus during the lecture, he seemed surprisingly uncomfortable now. "I have a question I...did not think of asking before."

"Yes?" I closed my briefcase and waited.

He spoke hurriedly, as if wanting to get it on the table as soon as possible. "What are your feelings concerning psychic entities of a non-physical nature?"

"You mean like ghosts?"

"In a manner of speaking. Yes."

He was probably worried about how irrational a course he had gotten into. I shook my head and put his mind at ease. "That's one of the aspects I don't buy. Paranormal mental phenomena such as telepathy and psychokinesis have more scientific grounding than the supernatural. This isn't a class on the occult. We won't be doing much discussion of astrology or trying to track the Bogeyman."

Something crossed his face, like a shadow though the lights in the room never flickered. "I see. Thank you." And he left.

It wasn't the last time Egon stayed after. Every week or so he'd wait for the rest of the students to depart and then asked me for an expansion on a point of a lecture, or clarification of an issue from the reading I had neglected to raise in class. He wasn't merely brown-nosing, either; I've got a good eye for that. Seemed Len Kauffman had reason to be worried about his star being distracted.

I enjoyed it, I admit. Spengler brought up many of his questions in class as well, spicing up my lectures and turning a few discussions into intense debates. Most times he seemed oblivious to the furor he'd raise, calmly posing his inquiry and then sitting back, listening intently to my answer and the refutations of his fellow classmates, occasionally arguing his own side if it seemed that not many followed his stance. He wasn't as rigidly skeptical as I had expected a devotee of the hard sciences to be; while he insisted on rigorous scientific evidence to substantiate anything, he was not adverse to considering untested theories. Either way, he wasn't afraid to state his opinions, and support them.

Just one person like that can change the dynamics of an entire course. I was fortunate that fall to have two. The other one surprised me a bit. Peter Venkman always had something to say, nine times out of ten phrased in such a way that the whole class would crack up. Most of the class—Egon Spengler rarely smiled, and laughed not at all. Venkman referred to him as Mr. Spockler once—he swore it was just a slip of the tongue. It took over a minute before anyone could be heard after that one.

What surprised me wasn't that Venkman made them laugh. It was the content of his questions. He was a fraternity boy, a football jock, and class clown. He also attended every class, and, as his questions made clear, listened to every lecture and read all the material. He'd make fun of authors and studies, but I wondered if the other students realized that in order to ridicule them, he had to be acquainted with them.

Unlike Egon, Peter was a skeptic of the first class. It made me wonder why he'd taken the course sometimes; he was definitely of the kind who had to see it to believe it. And even then he'd think twice. Untrusting, not exactly paranoid, but not about to put his faith in much other than his own skills. I wondered if he was like that in his interpersonal relationships as well. He cultivated his own popularity, but that's not the same as forming friendships, and he seemed to be walking a different girl to class every day of the week. And humor, especially the sharply sarcastic vein he excelled at, can be used as a way to keep one's distance.

I understood why some of my colleagues had trouble with him. He refused to take things seriously, and those who did in his estimation he targeted mercilessly. I avoided the brunt of that, in part because of my own attitude and in part because Egon Spengler drew most of his fire. Egon seemed to find responding to Peter beneath him, for the most part, and ignored the barbs without difficulty. But he listened closely whenever Venkman spoke, I noticed.

And Peter paid attention to Egon. I caught him grinning a couple times when Spengler spoke, and it wasn't always deprecating. He seemed able to follow most tangents the physics student went on. And maybe it was because his own sense of humor was remarkably fine-tuned—despite its crassness—that he picked up on the sly, dry wit Spengler occasionally exhibited.

This continued for the first month and a half. Midway through October the semester projects began. Half the course grade is a combination research paper, project, and short presentation, which allows the students to focus on an area of parapsychology that particularly appeals to them. Against the advice of some of my colleagues, I decided when I first began teaching the course that this should be a two-person project. Psychology, like all scientific disciplines, often requires collaboration; though it sounds like a kindergarten lesson, it is important to learn cooperation.

Assigning pairs is always interesting. I discovered early on that it is unwise to let students pick partners. Boyfriends go with girlfriends and get nothing done—at least nothing they can be graded for. Best friends argue until they hate the sight of one another; people are left out. So I choose the pairs.

I could do it randomly, but after a month and a half I have a decent feel for my students and who might work well together. One night I stayed up after my wife went to bed, running down the list of names and making decisions. Some were easy. Baxter and Furlan already did everything together, but they were too good to split up. Since there was an odd number of students, one match would have to be three; Biggs, Christian, and Doyle had similar enough ideologies and interests to be compatible.

Furst and Williams. A good talker and a good thinker; they could do great things together. Jurik and Andreas—oh, I have a touch of the evil in me. One of the worst skeptics and one of the most fervent believers I have. If they didn't kill each other they would teach each other more than I ever could.

Spengler. Hmm. Who could hold their own against a genius? He'd do the entire project by himself because he'd never notice how far ahead he was getting. I put his name aside for now and continued down the list.

Scoggins and O'Hare were both solid, competent students; neither of them had much invested in the discipline of psychology but they did good work. Tallman would be well suited with Conaway. She was bright, had a gift for the field I suspected, but she needed someone like Conaway, both patient and emphatic, to draw her out.

Venkman needed some thought. Couldn't pair him with any of the girls, sexist as that sounded. Half of them would be thrilled but would accomplish nothing academic; the other half would hunt me down. He needed someone who could challenge him, involve him in the project. Otherwise he'd contrive to have his partner do all the work, without the poor sap even realizing he was getting stuck with it. Now who couldn't be snowed by his charms?

I finished up the rest. Wortham and Wasser—sounded like a law firm, and whatever they'd choose to do together was bound to be weird and not a little twisted, but almost definitely interesting. The remaining few names I matched in arbitrary pairings; at least one set would surprise me, I knew. A psychologist can only make likely predictions, after all; nothing is ever certain.

There were two names yet to be crossed off. I read them, read them again, and then I smiled. Either way I looked at it, this was much too good to pass up. I wrote the final two in the same box and went to bed.

The list of assignments was posted the next day. Spengler had apparently studied it before I announced it, because he stayed after the lecture, not even waiting for the other students to leave before addressing me. "Dr. Chandler?"

"Yes, Egon?"

"I saw the assignments for the semester projects, and I believe you may have made a mistake."

"I don't make mistakes on that."

"I understand, but in this case I think there might have been a typo—"

"I checked the list three times. No typos."

"But..." Spengler looked wretchedly close to losing his composure. "Professor Chandler, if you would please just re-check it—perhaps you reversed my name with someone else's. Or maybe someone is playing a prank. Right now it shows me paired with...Peter Venkman."

"The list is correct," I told him. "You'll do the project with him. Actually, Egon, I thought you'd be pleased to be working with the one student with as high an average as your own."

Egon blinked. It was, I think, the first time I'd seen him speechless. He only took a couple of seconds to recover, then apologized, thanked me for listening, and left.

Three days later Peter Venkman visited me during my office hours. "Hi, Professor," he said, dropping into the chair opposite my desk and doffing his baseball cap. I took the gesture as a sign of respect, which in turn put me on my guard. In my own estimation, Peter was a good kid. He also was manipulative, and not exactly the leader in respect for authority. Peter Venkman's respect was something that had to be earned, and I hadn't done nearly enough to qualify, no matter what position I held.

"How can I help you, Peter?" I asked, putting away the test I was grading to face him. Showing respect is one way to earn respect, from anyone.

He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the arms of the chair. "It's about this project. I know you said the partner assignments were final, but I was wondering if that could be bent. Make a little exception. I mean, if the partners are completely incompatible, if they can't work together at all, it doesn't benefit anyone. We get a bad grade, you have to read a lousy paper—"

"That's why I expect you to figure out a way to work together and produce something appealing. I rely on college students being mature enough to find a way around individual differences."

I was careful that my tone wasn't insulting, and he didn't take it as such. "I know, Professor. I get that. But...geeze, Spengler? He called me yesterday morning to make an appointment to plan our schedule. Never mind what we're even going to be doing, we have to meet just to work out when we're going to be doing it."

"Some might argue you could do with a little exposure to organization," I remarked.

Venkman grinned. The humor was in his eyes as well as in his mouth, but I wasn't entirely fooled. He was amused, but it was impossible to tell what else was going on behind that opaque green gaze. "There's organized, and then there's anal retentive. C'mon, Prof. You know I get the work done. I don't need to be the number one buyer of daily planners to do it."

"I don't suppose the fact that he wants to begin immediately a project not due for another month has any bearing on your feelings."

Rather than faltering, Peter's grin widened. "Maybe. But I'd finish it in time."

"I know. I was a champion procrastinator myself, in my day. I'm not saying you should become Egon by any means. But learning to adjust to one another's working styles is a key aspect of collaboration on any research project."

"I 'spect my style will drive poor old Spengler off the deep end."

"I'm glad you're so concerned for your fellow student's mental health," I said. "But I'm afraid I have more confidence in his resiliency. If that's your only complaint, I see no grounds for me to split you two up."

Venkman stood and jauntily stuck his cap back on his head. "I'll get back to you. Ciao, Prof. Thanks for listening."

"You're welcome," I said, then added, "So you know, I've never changed a pairing on any grounds, except once because of an illness."

"I'll see about getting mono, then." He winked and was gone.

I actually was inclined to be more flexible than I stated, in some cases. But despite Peter and Egon's objections, I didn't think either of them would do as well paired with someone else as they could with each other. Venkman might be inclined to let someone else do the work, but he wouldn't let anyone walk over him. Especially not Egon Spengler. And Spengler wasn't about to shoulder the burden of this project if it was clear his partner was trying to foist it off on him. Not if that partner was Peter Venkman. Doing their part would be a matter of pride for both of them.

That pride was tested in the next few weeks. The week after I posted partner assignments, their chosen topics were due. Spengler and Venkman gave theirs to me a full class early, at Egon's insistence I am positive. They decided to follow in Harry Houdini's footsteps and examine the phenomena of ghosts, mediums, and debunking spiritualists. Recalling Spengler's question to me the first day of class, I thought that the topic was most likely his idea.

Nevertheless, it was he who, unable to wait until the next class, turned up at my office for the first time a couple weeks later. "Dr. Chandler, I must discuss with you the matter of our semester project. Specifically the pairings. I know it is your policy not to change them, but I am afraid that I find working with Venkman...intolerable."

"Only intolerable? Not impossible?"

"Perhaps I wouldn't go that far," Egon sighed after a moment's hesitation. "Extraordinarily difficult, however."

"Is he not pulling his weight? Refusing to work? Or is he holding you back scientifically?"

"Not precisely." Egon sighed again. "Considering he's never had a course in the pure sciences, I have had to make very few allowances for his lack of knowledge. And though he's forced some compromises, he is...more willing to work than I believed he would be."

"Then what's the problem?"

"His attitude," Egon said flatly. "He is willing to work, but only at his own pace and in his own way. He refuses to keep track of his progress or put his notes in any semblance of order, let alone write them legibly enough that I may read them. His research is haphazard at best, and when we discuss possible approaches he will at times deny my ideas without so much as a supporting argument. He is fully capable of doing this and more, but he deliberately neglects to. In addition, he consistently arrives late to our scheduled meetings, only to leave early so as to be punctual for his private dates."

I waited until Egon ran out of steam, then said, "I take it you've discusses these concerns with him already. You should be able to find solutions if you try. Adjust your meeting schedule so it doesn't interfere with his social life. Learn to read his handwriting."

Egon did not look pleased by the suggestion. "So I should concede to him on every account."

"It seems like he's made quite a few concessions to you already," I pointed out. "He is coming to the meetings, at least. He is taking notes, and doing the reading. He went along with your topic—it was your idea, wasn't it?"

"It was," Egon acceded. "But he's interested in it too, I believe. He has said he is, at least. It can be difficult to tell; he's easily distracted by other matters. Our discussions get off topic fairly frequently."

I didn't ask where they went, though I was curious. Nor did I mention that a conversation requires the agreement of both participants to go off-track. It confirmed my assessment, however. Two people who can hold a dialogue, especially one that meanders from the purpose, are capable of working together. "Nothing you've mentioned sounds insurmountable. I'll trust you can figure it out yourselves. So how's the project itself coming along? Anything I can help you with as far as research or design goes?"

"I believe we are set for the moment," replied Egon. "Though we barely have an outline for the paper, and hardly a plan for the presentation at all—"

"You're ahead of the rest of the class," I assured him. "I wouldn't worry about it unduly."

"So Venkman says." Egon frowned.

"Then listen to him. Though you may not, I have confidence that you'll survive working with him just this once. It's only half a semester more, after all. I don't believe he takes physics courses?"

"I hope not. He'd systematically overload an accelerator if it would get a girl's attention," Egon muttered, low enough under his breath that I was barely sure I heard him right. He reached for the door.

Only to have it open before his fingers touched the knob. Peter Venkman strode in, stopping an inch shy of ramming into Egon. The two students' eyes met; then without a word Egon nodded at me and stepped past him, closing the door behind him. Crossing his arms, Venkman glanced after him and then looked at me. His mouth opened, but he shrugged and closed it before asking why Spengler had come to see me. I greeted him and he responded with a brief hello without taking a seat.

While Egon had been coolly stoic, Peter made no attempt to hide his annoyance. He paced back and forth before my desk as he said, "I'm betting Spengler already said this, but Prof, you gotta reconsider this assignment-thing. I can't work with him. He can't work with me. I'm not saying he's a bad guy, but he'd get on a saint's nerves and I haven't been canonized."

I cut him off before he could list his grievances. "Are you getting the assignment done?"

His eyes flashed angrily. "Yeah, but it's about as much fun as being drawn and quartered."

"If you're doing it, I don't see a problem."

"I don't like being miserable. You're a psychologist." He looked abruptly serious, moreso than I'd ever seen him be in the lecture hall. "Look, I'll deny it elsewhere, but I didn't just come to college to have a good time. I want an education. I'm getting the best damn one I can get. But that doesn't include going through hell with Spengler the Great."

"Since you seem inclined to speak frankly, do you mind if I do as well?" I asked.

"You're the professor."

"Then, if I may, has anything happened to put you so at odds? I realize you have different personalities and different interests. But you both are intelligent, reasonably mature people. Why are you being so stubbornly hostile?"

I think Peter was amused by my bluntness, perhaps a little impressed. Much as he liked smoke-screens around his own self, he was one to appreciate cutting through bullshit. But there was something in his expression curiously at bay. He seemed to hold a short internal debate before coming to a decision. "Yeah. We...had a fight last night. I did. Whatever. I broke up with my girlfriend a couple days ago, I was looking for someone to take it out on, and Spengler was there."

He paused only an instant. "But I wouldn't have lost it if he hadn't been so damn irritating. I showed up five minutes late by his watch—he sets it to Naval Observatory time, I swear—and I got the cold shoulder like I'd bombed a small country in Africa. Then when I told him off—I left the library and he followed me out, but he didn't even yell back, he just watched. When I shut up he gave me the fish eye and said I shouldn't allow my personal life to interfere with my academics. I knew I had to get out of there before I slugged him, so I said I had to make my frat's party, and I was going to split.

"Before I did, Spengler blocked me and said he was sorry—sorry!--but that he wished I would care more about my studies, because I had at least as much talent for them as I did for my 'social pursuits,' and I shouldn't allow one to hurt the other. Like he knew anything about either one. Like he even car—like it had anything to do with him."

"What did you do?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Told him I didn't give a damn about my studies and went to the party."

"So you lied."

"Doubt he knows it, though."

He hoped not. It would be detrimental to his image as the partier, the BMOC. In a way I felt honored that he had admitted the truth to me. It also gave me insight that would have been only distant speculation otherwise. "Peter, I'm going to say something out of the blue, just to get your take on it. Does Egon disturb you because you perceive him as being more intelligent than you?"

Venkman started, and the surprise in his eyes was about as close as I thought I'd get to seeing what was actually going on inside his head. He didn't try to deny it, either. He probably knew he'd already revealed too much. "Pretty sharp, Prof. Guess you don't get a psych degree out of a cracker jack box. Yeah. That gets me. Spengler's a genius, and I don't know if I've ever met one before. It's not just what he knows; he can put things together in his head faster than I can read them."

"You're not used to it."

"Hey, I don't always talk smart, but that doesn't mean I can't outthink most people." Including his professors, his slight smile implied. I let it pass. Cockiness is a prerogative of youth, and besides there was some truth to it. Venkman was sharp. When it came to thinking on his feet, there were very few people who could match him, maybe not even Egon Spengler.

He might keep that side of himself mostly hidden, but he wasn't used to challenges to it. Egon might have similar problems, but as his brand of intelligence was more quantifiable, he would only feel threatened by another scientist. Acknowledging Peter's abilities did not threaten his own. Peter should see that the same was true of himself. "Does Egon being smarter make him better than you?"

It was an elementary question, but Venkman grasped the point. "No," he answered immediately, then thought it through. "No, I guess not." He cracked a smile, and I could see the barriers going back up as he returned to his original purpose. "But his brain doesn't make him any easier to work with, either. He's memorized his periodic table forward and backwards, but he doesn't know jack shit about relating to people."

If he wanted to get back to that, than so would I. "What does this have to do with me?" I asked him. "I've made it clear that barring a life-threatening disease, you two are working together. It's up to you to figure out how to do that. From what I've seen, you do know something about relating to people. Therefore I'd say it falls on you to relate to Egon. Perhaps show him what he lacks in interpersonal skills."

"Everything," Peter muttered. "I'm trying, Prof. But I don't want to be flunked just 'cause—"

"Neither of you want to flunk," I told him. "You've both got the same incentive there. If it's all the common ground you've got, work with it. I admit, I'd be disappointed if you decide that's it. But it's your decision, how much you want to find. I have nothing to do with it; I'm just the one grading you."

"Got it," he said, and left resigned but determined.

That was the last time Peter visited my office that semester. Egon came once more, to see about obtaining a couple volumes of a journal he had been unable to locate elsewhere. I asked about how the project was coming along, and Egon talked about it with enthusiasm for several minutes. Peter's name came up several times, not negatively but along the lines of, 'Venkman and I found the article's conclusion contradictory,' and 'Venkman is pursuing the poltergeist angle, though he's firmly set against the hypothesis I find most likely.'

I heard that they were almost expelled from the library on one occasion because of the volume and energy of their discussion; only Egon's reputation saved them from being barred access. There were also rumors, which I knew to be true, that they were the two who broke into the neuropsych lab at 3 o'clock one morning to run some scans they couldn't schedule at normal hours. That only succeeded because Peter fast-talked the building monitor; they were fortunate she was female.

One of my fellow professors joked that I had created a monster. I didn't deny it. Then there was the student opinion on the matter. Venkman somehow managed to convince at least half the student body—those that counted, perhaps he might say—that the Peter Venkman hanging around with Egon Spengler, pulling hijinks any chemistry club member would be proud of, was _not_ the same Peter Venkman the football star and BMOC, about as far from a nerd as one could get. Maybe they weren't the same, at that. I wondered which one the true Peter preferred.

In spite of the rocky start, their presentation—performance might have been a better word for it—ended up being the best by far. They ran ten minutes over time and did everything but bring in an actual ghost, displaying a variety of tricks of the medium's trade, discussing the scientific evidence for and against spectral activity, explaining tie-ins to telepathy and psychokinesis. Peter did most of the talking, but he didn't speak over Egon's short lectures, planned out beforehand to avoid going long or confusing too many students. Venkman's own contribution was laughter-provoking as expected and informative as well. At two spots in the speech he glanced slyly at Egon, and Egon returned the look with the small smile of a private joke shared. They enjoyed themselves as much as their audience, which said a fair amount.

Their paper might not have been as entertaining for them to put together, but it was a pleasure for me to read. Egon's verbose, precise prose was embellished with touches of Venkman's informal style. Their conclusions were fascinating, and I regretted not having a chance to discuss the topic with them further. It was a shame Egon wasn't a psychology major. I didn't know where Peter would end up, but though he definitely had some interest in parapsychology, he remained a skeptic, probably too much so to consider delving deeper into the field.

And then the final was taken, and the semester was over.

 

* * *

I actually saw a lot of Peter that spring. He signed up for the Language and Memory course I was tag-team teaching with a fellow professor of psycholinguistics. Although the class was twice the size of the parapsychology course, he still spoke up a fair amount. I noted he especially posed questions to break the monotony of my colleague's lectures. Professor Burns, although a brilliant researcher, was not the best speaker, something of an irony given his field of study.

I had a pleasant surprise when Peter turned up at my office midway through February. He shook his head when I asked if he had a question about next Monday's paper, grinning. "Not thinking about that until Sunday. But I'm a sophomore, and our declaration of major forms are due next week. I was thinking about declaring a psychology major, so I need a psych prof's John Hancock."

The way Venkman was heading, I hadn't been sure if he was going to wind up one of the top psychologists in the field or the best damned used car salesman in the United States. It was all I could do not to spring out of my chair and lock him in the office until he had filled out his form. Instead I smiled. "I'll sign it with pleasure. Welcome to the department!"

I signed it on the spot, and as there was no other students waiting he hung around for a few minutes while I asked him how his other classes were going and such. Last semester's project came up, and he admitted that it hadn't been as bad as it had started out. "It was pretty wild, actually. Egon's got some nutsy ideas locked in that oh-so-logical skull of his. If you ever talk to him, be sure not to bring up his theory of psychokinetic energy. It'll lose you a good two hours of your life, and you'll find out more than you ever wanted to know about psycho-electromagnetic field interactions."

I chuckled, but was curious, both about the theory Peter had mentioned and his remarkably clear memory of it. I didn't think about his warning, though, because I doubted I'd meet Spengler again. The physics labs are a fair distance from the psychology building, and the campus is big enough that I don't often encounter students not taking psych courses.

I was mistaken; I saw Egon before the end of the semester. Mid-April, when the Language and Memory term papers were due, he arrived at my office door bearing the requisite fifteen typed pages. "I'm passing this in for Peter," he explained.

"It was due this morning in class," I said. Peter had been absent that day.

Egon nodded. "The tardiness is entirely my fault. He's not feeling well, and not trusting his fraternity brothers he asked me to hand it in for him. I was unable to get out of my obligations before now." He spoke evenly but looked uncomfortable, fidgeting from foot to foot. "Will you please accept it now? I can vouch that it was completed at the proper time, any detriment should fall to me—"

"I'll take it. No points off." I retrieved the paper from him.

"Thank you, Dr. Chandler." Egon's relief was still tinged with guilt. "He worked quite hard to type it up last night before falling asleep, though he needed the rest—"

"Is he all right? What does he have?"

Egon pushed pale blond hair out of his eyes. It had grown from his almost crew-cut of last semester, though it was nowhere near as unruly as Peter's. "Just a cold, I believe. I've bought him some Vitamin C, and made sure he slept in today before it becomes worse. His mother asked me to see to that."

"Did she ask you to type up his paper, too?"

"I only typed the last two pages—" He blinked behind his glasses. "How—I assure you, I composed none of it, I only transcribed Peter's draft—"

"I just guessed. And it's not a problem. You can read his handwriting now?"

"In a manner of speaking," Egon said wryly. "I find Sumerian cuneiform simpler, but I'm gradually learning the Venkman variety."

That wasn't entirely a joke, I found out sometime later. Not aware of Egon's facility in ancient scripts then, I simply smiled and asked him how he had felt about last semester's class, whether it had any impact on his current studies. To my pleasant surprise, he was more than willing to discuss parapsychology, and even thinking of pursuing a future degree in it after graduation. Peter had expressed a similar wish; that was one of the major reasons I elected to become his advisor—not that there had been much competition for the position.

I hadn't been aware that Egon was helping foster that interest, but I was happy to hear it. Our conversation lasted over an hour, and we did touch upon the psychokinetic energy theory Peter had previously mentioned. While I didn't follow all the science Egon brought up, what I did get was enough to make me hope against the odds that he would retain some fascination for parapsychology even when pursuing his career in physics.

I didn't think I'd come across another student of the hard sciences equally engaged by my discipline. I soon found I was mistaken in that as well.

 

* * *

The first semester of the following year began as they usually do, in a flurry of activity, the chaos of freshman orientation giving way to the flood of upperclassmen returning to the campus, meeting their friends and finding their new homes. Class lists aren't finalized until the freshmen choose their courses, and during this period members of the administration can be found racing around in circles like lemmings who have taken too much sun, trying to bring order to the disasters. Somehow it always works out, but there's invariably a day or so of panic.

Since my parapsychology course is for upperclassmen, the list had already been finalized sometime before, though as usual I didn't receive a final copy until right before the first day. I again knew a few names on it, and the rest were predictable or simply unknowns. No Spenglers or Venkmans at first glance, though of course I hadn't met everyone yet. There's always a surprise in every class.

In this case it turned up in my office an hour after I got the list, in the shape of a stocky, auburn-haired boy I didn't recognize. One of the new freshman, I surmised. He looked very young and terribly shy, ducking his head before I could meet his eyes. "Um, Mr., I mean Doctor, I mean, Professor Chandler?"

"Yes?" I responded patiently.

"Hi, I'm Ray...Stantz." He paused a fraction of a second as if expecting a horrible reaction to the name, and when he failed to get one plowed onward. "I had a, have a question. About your parapsychology course."

"It's for upperclassman," I said automatically, then mentally winced when Ray dropped his head again. His ears were red. "I'm sorry, what's your question?"

"That...that was it, I guess," he mumbled. "I was hoping...is there any chance...they said professors will make exceptions sometimes. I know I don't have the prerequisites, but..."

"You're interested in parapsychology."

When he lifted his head I saw the spark in his brown eyes that he had been hiding. He nodded excitedly. "I have been for a while, really, I've studied it on my own, a little. I was hoping, I mean, I wanted to take a class in it, but there isn't one at my high school, it was a public school, they didn't have any psychology classes. I want to learn more about it, but they're saying your course might be dropped next year..."

They had been saying that. I was hoping this year's increased enrollment might change their minds, but it wasn't all that likely. "I should be teaching at least one more session before you graduate."

"But I was hoping to take advanced parapsychology, if it's offered, and if it was and I hadn't taken this one, I couldn't get into it..." He swallowed and stopped. For an instant he looked so disappointed he might cry; then he mastered it. "I'm sorry, I was just hoping...I'm sorry..."

The last thing I wanted to do was destroy a new student's hopes for college. "Wait, don't give up yet. You made it this far. I'm willing to take interest into account. You mentioned you'd studied on your own?"

The auburn head bobbed up and down. "Just a little. Last year I read, uh, Kusche's _The Bermuda Triangle Mystery Solved_, Bok's _Objections to Astrology; The Psychology of Anomalous Experience_ by, oh, what's the name—Reed. And Nickell's _Angels, Spirits, Demons and Other Alien Beings; The Encyclopedia of the Paranormal_—well, I didn't finish that one, really, I just read most of the articles—"

"I've heard enough," I said, before he was speaking too quickly to understand. I might have suspected a con, but not from this boy; 'earnest' was too devious a word to describe him. Far be it from me to stop someone who had already covered half the required reading of the course. "I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. It won't be easy, I'm warning you now. But—"

His face lit up like my three-year-old's last Christmas morning. "Thank you, Professor! I know it won't be easy, I'll try my best—"

I bet he would. "If you have any trouble with the material, please don't be afraid to come talk to me about it," I told him as I signed his form. He nodded so vigorously he bounced on his toes and departed, all but skipping down the hall.

It turned out he and I had nothing to worry about. For most students, the course was moderately challenging, given the amount of reading and assignments; and I am not the easiest grader—a hardass, some might say, though I'm fair. As far as Ray went, however, I might have been a kindergarten teacher. He went through the literature like it was a grade-school primer, anyway. Though he had already read much of the assigned reading, he reread it for lectures. Then, his essays and tests made clear, he also was covering all of the recommended reading that students generally ignore or at most skim. And every week he would have a new book under his arm, which he'd devour avidly in the few minutes before class began. They were never readings for a class; there wasn't a course at Columbia that assigned texts as esoteric as those Ray read for fun. Most were in English, but a couple were in Latin and one in Greek; I was familiar with some of the titles but I had to look a few up to satisfy my curiosity.

The extracurricular material didn't detract from his grades, or if it did it wouldn't show, because usually I had little choice but to give him the highest marks. The other students might have been jealous had they been aware of it, but for the most part they weren't. That was due to the one fault I could find with Ray. The painful shyness he had exhibited when talking to me in my office was magnified tenfold in the classroom; even a direct question would rarely elicit more than a one-word response. He always had an answer, but he could barely say it, and not loudly enough for the rest of the class to hear.

It seemed impossible to draw him out, at least in that group setting, and I wondered how he'd do partnered with anyone. It worried me a little. He was younger than the rest of the class, even young for a freshman; he had skipped a grade in junior high, I learned. I thought there might be more to it than even that. His personality, that great intelligence and intellectual passion restrained by extreme social anxiety, bespoke of a hard childhood. He needed to break out of his shell, and college is a wonderful place to do that, but it had to be his effort. I hoped he could make it, and feared he wouldn't.

Then one day, during a lecture on out of body experiences, I asked a question and Ray's hand hesitantly rose. I called on him immediately and he began, "I think...Perkins was mostly right, but he doesn't, I mean, he didn't take into account how much energy the human brain can produce. I've read studies, and although synaptic connections aren't electric, the signal that transverses the neuron—" and he was off and running. I saw more than a couple jaws drop as his voice picked up volume and energy—to say nothing of speed—as he expanded on the discourse.

Three minutes later he finished, flushing bright red as he snapped back to his surroundings, ducking his head so his nose was almost touching his notes. I saw a couple students smiling in his direction and giving surreptitious thumbs-ups, which I would have liked to do myself, but he didn't see them anyway. However, when I finished my lecture, before he could stuff his notebook in his bag I called, "Ray? Do you have a minute?"

He cringed. As the rest of the class filed out he stepped gingerly over to the podium and started to say, "I'm sorry, Professor Chandler, I didn't mean—"

"Ray, that was wonderful," I interrupted.

"Thank you," he mumbled, watching his sneakers intently as if hoping they would run off with him.

"You should speak up in class more often," I said. "Not to sound cliched, but you've got a lot to contribute and I wish you would more often. Is there any reason you haven't before?"

"I..." Ray made an effort to raise his eyes and meet mine. "One of my friends had you before, and he said you like us to speak up when we have something to say. He told me I did, and I should say it. Because it would be good for the class, and for my own academics."

Good for you, period, I thought but didn't say aloud. Whoever Ray's friend was, I congratulated him, for knowing me and for knowing Ray well enough to so instruct him. "So who is this friend? Was he in last year's class?"

Ray nodded. "He's not a psychology major, though; he was just interested in parapsychology. He's a TA in my chemistry class—I'm in the engineering school."

"You're not considering a psychology major?" I inquired with a touch of disappointment.

"Psychology's really neat, but..." Ray's ebullience was rising, his shyness again vanishing as he warmed to his topic. His excitement about knowledge drowned out everything else, when it was tapped. If he could be like that all the time—though if he were, his friends would need constant caffeine doses to keep up with him..."I've always loved engineering, assembling gadgets and taking them apart and everything. I built three cars in high school autoshop, it's not hard, you just need to know how things fit together and why they do what they're supposed to do. It's great! But the parapsychology is awesome, too. I like science-fiction, but if it were real, any of it, that's so much better, it means that there's more out there that we don't know that we can find out. Maybe I'll double major in Mythology &amp; the Occult, I've heard that's a fun major. Engineering's supposed to be difficult, though I don't think it is so far..."

It took several more weeks before Ray got into the habit of speaking in the classroom, but whenever I pushed him he didn't disappoint me. And I stopped worrying about whether he could hold his own with a partner, and began trying to figure out who could hold their own with him. If only Peter or Egon were in this class. I ended up pairing him with a quiet young woman whose passion for psychic investigations was the closest any in the class came to matching Ray's obsession with, well, just about everything. There were several partners who initially protested their assignments, but I never heard a word of protest from them. I tended to doubt either of them would come to me about it even if there were trouble.

I saw little of Peter that semester; between football, classes, and his off-campus job he was kept quite busy. In November when the next term's schedules needed to be finalized, he appeared in the lecture hall while I was setting up for class and shoved the form on top of my notes. "A million dollars will be yours, if you'd just sign on the dotted line."

"I should hold you to that." I scanned his classes, a bit sorry he wouldn't be in one of my own. "Hmm. Five is a heavy load, especially with two seminars."

"I can handle it."

"I never thought otherwise." I scribbled my approval on the line.

He took back his schedule and looked around the room. "So how's the course going? Anyone as fun as Egon or me?"

I couldn't resist. "Better, actually. You might want to stick around to meet him. I think you'd like him." He'd get a kick out of Ray's energy, at the very least. And Ray could use a friend like Peter Venkman; acceptance socially might be even more important for him than academically, where he already shone. Peter could be abrasive, but he was rarely cruel, and I knew he wouldn't hurt Ray even if he didn't befriend him.

Before I could say anything more, Ray himself entered, heading to his accustomed seat in the third row. I was about to point him out to Peter when Ray spotted us. His face brightened the way it did when he got started on a good topic, and he jogged down to us.

"Hiya, kid," Peter said with an easy grin.

"Hi, Peter," Ray replied. "Hi, Professor Chandler. You know Peter?"

"He's my advisor," Peter explained. "And of course he knows me. I took this class last year, ya know."

"I didn't know if he'd remember you."

"Most professors do remember Peter," I interjected.

Peter smirked with a hint of pride. Ray's eyes widened; then he too cracked a smile. "I guess they do," he said. "They remember Egon, too, for different reasons, though."

Peter punched him lightly in the ribs for that. "Egon Spengler?" I asked.

Both students nodded. "That's how I met Ray here," Peter put in. "He and Egon hang around all the time talking science—did you know Ray's a whiz kid in that stuff too?—and they go looking for me when they need a reminder of how ordinary people communicate. Not that I'm ordinary," he hastened to add. "But you get the idea. Anyway, what were you saying before Ray showed up?"

I looked between them, Ray smiling like a red-headed chipmunk; Peter grinning, sardonically but without malice, and, oddly, the impression of defensiveness I always got from him was lessened, as if not as much was hidden beneath the grin's surface. "Never mind," I said.

"I better split, don't want to disrupt this class too. Bye, Prof." Peter slung an arm around Ray as they walked away, and I heard him ask, "So, how's it going with that cute partner of yours? Have you thanked the Prof for her yet?" Ray's ears went scarlet, but whatever he replied I didn't hear over the noise of the other students entering.

It wasn't really my business anyway, but even after the project was done—exceptionally, as I knew it would be—I did catch a glimpse of her and Ray studying for the final together. They seemed to be enjoying themselves a good deal. I wondered how much Peter had to do with that. Though I know women have an attraction for the soft-spoken, shy, smart types (fortunately, else I wouldn't be married now) somehow I doubted Ray was a regular Don Juan on his own.

It was fortunate I allowed Ray to take the course that year, and not only because he couldn't have possibly done any better if he had waited. Over winter break the department decided that with the retirement of the other cognition professor, I was to take over his vacated position until a replacement was hired. I therefore had no more time for the parapsychology classes.

The next fall Peter took my Sensory and Perception course, but as Egon had graduated and Ray, so I heard from Peter, was firmly set on his dual major in Engineering and Mythology &amp; the Occult, I didn't think I would get a chance to teach his friends again. Egon was going to graduate school in the New York area, however. I saw him several times on campus with Peter and Ray, and learned that the three of them were sharing an apartment.

That fall, in my role of advisor, I asked Peter the question that all seniors must answer time and again: what was he doing after graduation. He had a ready response; he was applying to the same school as Egon, one of the same programs, in fact. He laughed when I asked in disbelief if he was going to study physics. "Ha! No, parapsychology. Spengs—Egon is trying to do two masters at once. I keep telling him he's out of his pointy little head, but I'm not getting through. Anyway, he found one of the few places with a parapsych program, and he's doing that along with the physics. He's trying to convince them to allow him to combine the two, the physics of parapsychology or something, but I don't know if it's going to swing."

"So you're going to master in parapsychology?"

"Actually I'm hoping to go for the doctorate. Though I have to say, the straight psychology is pretty intense itself. And a heck of a lot more profitable. Don't think there's much call for parapsychologists, but professional psychologists rake it in. That might be for me. Ministering to the minds of the rich and famous. I could go for that."

He got into the program, of course; his grades were exemplary and he found a couple other professors besides me willing to give him the recommendations he deserved. The next year he kept in touch as he started pursuing the parapsychology doctorate.

A year after Peter graduated, a new cognition professor was hired, and I was allowed to offer two parapsychology courses. Ray was one of twenty-nine students who took the advanced seminar, the spring of his senior year. I was happy to have him, and he aced the course as would be expected. He graduated with his interest in parapsychology brought to heights I could barely imagine, and ended up following in Egon's footsteps, going for a masters in parapsychology combined with an advanced engineering degree.

Then there were budget cuts in the department, and parapsychology was dropped from Columbia's curriculum altogether.

 

* * *

I went on sabbatical the year Peter Venkman and Egon Spengler both returned to Columbia, Peter to go for a doctorate in psychology, Egon to earn his in quantum physics. When I came back, Ray had joined them, his goal a PhD in applied physics.

My friends in the physics department informed me that the team of Spengler and Stantz was making quite a name for itself. I later found out that the name was 'the Big Bang,' otherwise known as 'the Funding-Burners.' In their first year they set a new record in damage costs. It was rumored that Spengler was awarded his doctorate as a bribe to end his thesis experiments.

Peter was around the department, taking classes and teaching, but I didn't see much of him, even after he got his degree and became an assistant professor. His constant hectoring was primarily responsible for accomplishing what I had not, getting parapsychology reinstated, though since I was the tenured full professor I taught most levels of it. Nevertheless, Peter's classes were successful, and popular with the students for the most part.

That didn't stop the administration from firing him. My arguments for him did no good. I didn't have much clout despite my position; I had finally lost the war. The university was too eager to put parapsychology away for good, at last deeming it unworthy of the attention of a distinguished institution. They culled Egon and Ray for the same reasons; most faculty with degrees in parapsychology and related paranormal studies had trouble. Even with my tenure it was a near thing.

And then Gozer the Gozerian attempted to invade New York City.

Now, a little more than a year after that, I have one of the best offices in the new psychology building, on the top story with a wonderful view of the city outside the picture window, and more floor space than I know what to do with. I am a professor of parapsychology with an endowed chair, and they'll need to bring on another professor if they decide to add more courses to the curriculum, as they're strongly considering, given the interest.

I recognized the four of them immediately. Most people would; you can't watch the news without at least one story on the Ghostbusters coming up. Even out of uniform their faces are familiar. Of course, I knew three of them long before they were household names. It had been a while since they had crossed my threshold, though.

Even so, some things don't change much.

"Hi, Professor Chandler!"

"Hello, Dr. Chandler."

"Yo, Prof."

"Hello," I replied. "How can I help you?"

For a moment we all just smiled; then Peter laughed. "Great to see you again, Prof! How's it going? Still having fun with the parapsych?"

"More than ever," I assured him, "though perhaps not as much as you are."

"I don't know if fun is the most appropriate term," Egon said dryly.

"Yes it is," Ray contradicted. "It's great!"

Looking at them, all here in my office, brought me back years. I remembered clearly when I was their age now, teaching their younger selves, an assistant professor still with most of my hair. Noticing the changes that had passed in them too since they were my students. Egon, his hairstyle as far as one could get from his old except in color; conversely the neatly pressed shirt and slacks were the same in cut but with more color than before. The black hornrims were now round red frames, but the piercing blue behind them was unaltered.

Ray's appearance was less changed, taller but his earnest round face still young-seeming for his age. His stance, though, was different, carrying himself with the confidence he had lacked and needed that first year. Well-mannered surety replaced shyness in his voice, but the unleashed enthusiasm was strong as ever, or stronger.

Peter looked and sounded the same, brown hair a little too long, posture still simultaneously brazenly self-assured and relaxed, his laid-back tone edged with the ever-present sarcasm. He had gained a little weight during his stint as a professor, but the trials of busting ghosts had burned it off, his lean frame as fit as the undergraduate football star's. Even given slight changes in the face, practically identical to the student I'd advised. Except for his eyes, green as ever, but where the younger man's had been guarded, opaque, his were clear all the way to the peace inside. The wicked, mischievous spark wasn't gone—it burned brighter than ever. But the boldness that had been bravado before, a mask, was now an honest reflection of a man who had taken the right path, and found just where he wanted to be.

Now Peter nudged forward the fourth man accompanying them. "This is Winston Zeddemore."

I knew his name; I'd seen it on the news. We shook as Peter introduced me. "And this is Professor Chandler. He taught us everything we know about parapsychology."

"Hardly," I hastened to correct. "Even discounting everything you learned yourselves, which is most of it."

"We couldn't have done it without you, Prof," Peter said.

Winston had a firm grip and a ready smile. "Glad to meet you," he told me. "The guys have talked about you before."

"Nothing bad," Ray said quickly. "Peter's right, we probably wouldn't have done any of this if we hadn't taken your course."

"Which is why we've come here now, actually," Egon announced. When he had my attention he clarified, "As you were our instructor, we were wondering if you would be willing—"

"--since Winston doesn't know as much about parapsychology, but he wants to learn—" Ray put in.

"Could you give him a little tutoring?" Peter completed the request.

I looked over all four of them. "You want me to teach Mr. Zeddemore—"

"Winston," Winston said.

"Teach you parapsychology? When all three of you have degrees in it?"

"We're Ghostbusters," Peter said. "We're not professors anymore. And you are. You're the best. You taught all of us. We'll work out the paperwork with the university, and pay you, of course. It won't take long, Zed's quick on the uptake and he's got first-hand experience with the basics already. You don't have to, but we'd like you to. If you'd want to do it."

My three former students all gave me variations of pleading looks, ranging from Egon's quietly requesting gaze to Ray's best puppy impersonation. I studied Winston again. He stood by patiently and returned my look, obviously equally intrigued. I wondered precisely what his teammates had told him about me. "I take it you're as interested in parapsychology as they were," I remarked.

He nodded once. "I guess I have to be, now," he said. "I wasn't before, but my job and people's lives weren't depending on it then."

Honest, steady, and I didn't miss that he hadn't specified his own life as being dependent on it, though he had been with the others up on that rooftop when Gozer had come. "I hope you'll come to find it interesting in its own right."

"I think I might, at that." He smiled and I found myself returning it. He wasn't as buoyant as Ray, direct as Egon, or fiery as Peter, but there was a solid strength in him that was as powerful as any of the others' passion. Teaching him wouldn't be the same as instructing undergrads; he already knew his course, but I could help him along it. And I wanted to.

"I have one question, though," Winston said, before I agreed to it. "These are going to be private lessons, right? So I'm not going to have to do one of those projects with a partner?"

I eyed his teammates over the rims of my reading glasses. "Don't tell me you still talk about those."

Ray, Egon, and Winston all nodded. "We're not ever gonna forget them, Prof," Peter informed me.

Then he grinned. "But don't worry about it. We wouldn't want to."


End file.
